The First Councel

CHAPTER 13

So how do you think the FBI found out?” Trey asks from the chair opposite my desk.

“About me and Nora? I have no idea. I’m guessing through the Service. To be honest, though, I’m more concerned with what he implied about her and Vaughn.”

“I don’t blame you-if they’ve got something tying him to Nora, the two of them could potentially be-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“Why?” Trey asks. “You’ve thought it yourself-she’s never spent all her time on the side of the angels.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s out to get me.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes. I am.” Shaking my head, I add, “And even if I weren’t, what am I supposed to do-assume she’s the enemy just because the FBI mentions her in the same sentence as some killer named Vaughn?”

“But the drugs… ”

“Trey, I’m not doing anything until we get some more facts. Besides, you should’ve heard Adenauer. The way he was talking, it’s like he’s got something tying me to this guy.”

“You think that’s why Vaughn’s contacting you?”

“I’m not sure what to think. For all we know, Simon left the note, signed it from Vaughn, and is trying to link me up with a killer.”

“Sounds a little much,” Trey says. Leaning back in his chair, he stretches his arms in the air and lets out an enormous yawn. As his jaw juts side to side, he drops his chair back to the upright position. “Now what about Vaughn’s murder trial?” he asks. “Any idea what happened?”

“Not yet. Pam should-”

“I’ll have it by tomorrow morning,” Pam says, walking into my office.

“Have what?” Trey asks.

“Vaughn’s FBI file.”

“I don’t understand. Since when do you-”

“Until Simon hires a replacement, Pam’s taken over Caroline’s responsibilities,” I explain. “Which means she’s the new mistress of the files.”

“And guess who I saw on my way to the FBI’s office?”

“Simon?” I ask nervously.

“Think deranged girlfriend… ”

“You saw Nora?”

“She was headed to some function in the Indian Treaty Room-I stepped in the elevator and she was there.”

“Did she recognize you?”

“I assume so-she asked me if we were going to the same place. I couldn’t help but tell her the FBI wasn’t exactly a meet-and-greet. And then-I couldn’t believe it-she looks straight at me, and in the softest, sweetest voice says, ‘Thanks for helping him.’ I swear, I almost hit the Emergency Stop right there.”

It’s not hard to read the surprise in Pam’s voice. “You actually liked her, didn’t you?” I ask.

“No, no-now you’re just fantasizing. Deep down, I still think she needs a swift kick in her privileged little ass-but face-to-face… I certainly didn’t like her… it’s just… she’s not what I thought either.”

“You felt bad for her, huh?”

“I don’t pity her, if that’s what you’re asking… but she’s not as simple as she looks.”

“Of course she’s not simple-she’s a lunatic,” Trey shoots back. “What the hell is wrong with you two? You’d think she’s the friggin’ Pied Piper. Big deal-she’s complex. Welcome to reality. Thomas Jefferson cried freedom, then had an affair with one of his slaves.”

“So? People still separate the two.”

“Well they shouldn’t!”

“Well I hate to break it to you, but I got a nation of 270 million patriots who disagree.”

Shaking his head, Trey knows he’s not winning this one. “Y’know what-why don’t we just get back to Vaughn.”

Turning to Pam, I ask, “Is there any way to get his file earlier?”

“I’m trying my best,” she says, already downplaying. “They said it’ll take till tomorrow.”

“Screw tomorrow,” Trey says. “I got Vaughn’s number from information-we can call him right now.” He picks up the phone and starts dialing.

“Don’t!” I shout.

Trey stops cold.

“If this is the guy who killed Caroline, the last thing I need is a call to him originating from my phon-”

Before I can finish, the ringing of my phone cuts through the room. Pam and I look at Trey, who’s still closest to the receiver.

“What’s it say?” I ask as Trey checks the caller ID screen on the phone.

He shakes his head. “Outside Call,” which means that the person is either calling from an untraceable pay phone, an untraceable cell phone, or the person is one of the few White House bigshots who has a screened identity. I rush to my desk as the advice comes simultaneously.

“Pick it up.” “Don’t pick it up.”

“Let it go,” Pam adds. “He’ll leave a message.”

“If he leaves a message, you’re stuck where you are now,” Trey says. “Afraid to call him back.”

Unsure, I go with instinct. Trey over Pam. “This is Michael,” I say as I bring it to my ear.

“Michael, get over here,” Nora says on the other end of the line.

“Over where? Where are you?”

“Uncle Larry’s office. He just got the dirt on your new friend, Vaughn.”

“How’d you find out abou-?”

“C’mon, you don’t think the FBI sends him updates?”

I stay silent. Eventually, I ask, “Is it bad?”

“I think you should come up here. Quickly. Please.”

Like the day in the bowling alley, there’s something completely unnerving about hearing fear in Nora’s voice. She’s trying hard, but she’s not good at hiding it. I hang up the phone and race for the door.

“Where’re you going?” Pam asks.

“You don’t want to know.”

Lawrence Lamb doesn’t even look up. Sitting with near-military poise, he’s inspecting a red file folder that’s spread out on his huge leather-topped desk. I whisper a deferential “Good afternoon,” but he’s not interested. Nora, staring out the window, whirls around as I walk in.

“What’s going on?” I ask her as soon as the door to Lamb’s West Wing office slams shut.

“You might want to take a seat,” Nora suggests.

“Don’t tell me what to-”

“Michael, sit down,” Lamb insists in his always-calm voice. With more speed than I’d give him credit for, he whips off his reading glasses and finally looks up. His sharp blue eyes say the rest: I’m in his office now.

Sitting next to Nora in one of the two chairs opposite Lamb’s desk, I rephrase the question. “Nora told me you found out more about Vaughn.”

“And she told me you’re a trustworthy friend. Which means I’m only going to ask this once: Have you ever had any personal dealings with Patrick Vaughn?”

I look over at Nora, who reads my mind. With a subtle nod, she answers my question about Lamb: I can trust him. “I swear to you, I’ve never seen him, spoken to him, dealt with him… nothing. The only reason I know his name is because the investigator at the FBI-”

“I’m well aware of Agent Adenauer,” Lamb interrupts. “And I’m also aware of what you did for us that night with the authorities.” He shoots me a subtle nod to make sure I understand. In the back-scratch world of politics, this is his way of returning the favor. Lamb slides on his reading glasses and looks back at the file folder. Wearing his suit jacket despite the fact he’s in his own office, Lamb has a formal, almost dignified air about him. Like his subdued Brooks Brothers ties, he doesn’t need to try. After years of managing a successful health care company, he’s made his money-which is why he’s just about the only person on staff who doesn’t have chewed-apart fingernails.

Letting the red file folder rest in his manicured hand, he begins, “Patrick Taylor Vaughn was born in Boston, Massachusetts, and started out as your basic punk drug dealer. Pot, hash, nothing special. The interesting part, however, is that he’s smart. Rather than nickel-and-diming his way through the old neighborhood, he starts servicing the young elites at Boston’s many fine universities. It’s safer, and they pay their bills. Now he moves up to designer drugs: LSD, Ecstasy, lots of Special K.”

My eyes quickly dart at Nora. She’s staring at the floor.

“After a few turf battles, Vaughn gets sick of the competition and heads for your home state of Michigan.”

I give him a sharp look.

“You wanted the story,” Lamb says. “In Michigan, he has a few run-ins with the law. Then, two years ago, the police find the body of Jamal Khafra, one of Vaughn’s major competitors. Someone stood on the back of Jamal’s neck and used piano wire to slice his throat. Vaughn gets fingered for the murder, but swears he didn’t do it. Even passes a lie detector. After some prosecutorial blunders, the jury comes back with an acquittal. Feeling lucky, Vaughn hightails it out of Michigan and starts over right here in D.C. He lives in Northeast, off 1st Street. The problem is, when the FBI went to question him about Caroline, they first spoke to one of his neighbors, who apparently tipped him off. Right around then, Vaughn disappeared. He’s been missing for almost a week.”

“I don’t understand. Why’s he even a suspect?”

“Because when they examined the WAVES records on the day of Caroline’s death, the FBI found that Patrick Vaughn was in the building.”

“In the OEOB? You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I wish I were.”

“So what does that have to do with me?”

“That’s what we have to talk about, Michael. According to the computer records, you’re the one who cleared him in.”